


Seven Ways To Woo

by ann_fortunately



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Bi Peter Parker, Canon Compliant, Deadpool being Deadpool, Disaster bi at his finest, Fluff, M/M, No Angst, OFC - Freeform, Or does he, Peter doesn't know when someone flirts with him, Wade doesn't know how to make serious advances, brief mention of johnny storm, except for wade being self-conscious at one point but it's like 2 sentences, f words, heartmates canon, lilo and stitch mentions, michael jackson doesn't make an appearance, not slow burn not quick burn, peter works at stark's, peter's a certified adult and pays taxes, they've known each other for 3 years and yeah. idiots., two idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 12:38:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17581013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ann_fortunately/pseuds/ann_fortunately
Summary: "I have a mission. Seven days, two people, one purpose, and three years of doing it absolutely wrong according to the social rules of pursuing romance."or: Peter and Wade have known each other for three years now. If in Peter's opinion Wade has suddenly started acting strangely, it's most probably true.





	Seven Ways To Woo

  **DAY ONE**

 

To say he's never expected it to happen is to say he's the first in line to willingly get his hair dyed pink and blue. A bold damn lie.

After all, Peter _did_ give Wade his home address, which the mercenary ostentatiously scribbled down on one of his blood-splattered napkins. The fact that the man hasn’t stopped by even once since that day, and it’s been a solid month, means nothing. Peter should have been smarter than to think there will never be a day he’d wake up to Deadpool sprawled at the foot of his bed.

However, Deadpool isn’t sprawled at the foot of his bed. He’s not even close to the foot of his bed. Peter never supposed he’d think that, but he _wishes_ Wade Wilson was at the foot of his bed.

In fact, he wishes Wade Wilson was _anywhere_ but face down on the floor under his window, body bent at a disturbing angle, and legs— _one_ leg—rested on the wooden frame, whimpering out variously toned fucks and calling on the entire Greek pantheon. Even if that anywhere means his bed. Yes, he'd rather have a whole Wade Wilson in his bed than three quarters of broken Wade Wilson under his window, sue him.

"It’s just my heart bleeding, don't get your cute PJs in a knot." Wade waves a hand as much as he can in his current position. "Hakuna ma-fucking-tata, I'm all crystal fine."

He rolls over, bones cracking and twisting themselves back to their original positions  before they were crashed for absolutely no reason, other than their owner’s intent of skidding legless through a window on the seventh floor. He gets up with a couple of huffs and whined out at least seven very R-rated words.

"No, I’m pretty sure it’s the thigh cut halfway." Peter observes as the man miraculously jumps towards him with only one leg, nothing to lean on, somehow defying logic and gravity to stay balanced with the baggage he's carrying.

As if logic has ever applied to the persona of Deadpool.

"But my heart’s bleedin’ too, Bambi Eyes, don't be so unkind, it's not your gig."

Wade falls onto the bed face first, leaving an arm up in the air enough for Peter’s face to be brutally met with at least a hundred red roses. Peter snorts and rubs his nose as the flowers fall onto his  lap and scatter across the duvet.

"The things I do for you, Webs," Wade mutters, turning his head to look at Peter through the white lenses.

A smile stretches the worn out mask, but Peter can’t bring himself to reciprocate it. Not when his clean sheets are currently being bled on. He really should be more concerned about it given that they’re one of the only two sets he owns. Now either he’s bound to get fond of leftovers from blood stains, or he’ll end  up with a single set of bedsheets. He pencils a mental note to google how to pay back a mercenary for soaking bed sheets with body fluids. Come to think of it, and remembering the times his own suit has been covered in other kinds of fluids, he’s strangely relieved it’s just blood.

"Do you ever knock or is this the moment I say goodbye to my hope that you'd ever be civilized enough to pay an average, human-like visit?" He asks, his voice too steady for a twenty-five year old man suddenly torn out of his sleep at four in the morning in the middle of winter by a guy who used to kill for a living. He's seen Johnny Storm naked, he can take a mercenary in full gear. "Because if that’s the case, just say, and I'll try my best not to sigh."

"I beg your Skittles-sweet and sparkling pardon, darling," Wade huffs. "First and foremost, Wade Wilson and average put in one sentence sound like _These Boots Are Made For Walkin’_ covered by Jessica Simpson. Secondly, breaking through a window with half a leg and a hundred and fifty six mommyfucking roses is more romantic than it sounds. It’s on Wikipedia, look it up. And no, I didn't write that page. I wrote the one about cute date ideas such as pickpocketing, bank robbing, and painting your neighbor's horse blue. And _no_ , I have never painted a neighbor's horse blue. I painted her pink, like the true queen she was."

Peter quirks an eyebrow, changing his position to sit cross-legged and letting out a small yawn, which he muffles with his arm. He ignores the date ideas, his mind already having caught on one concerning matter.

"A hundred and fifty six? Are you nuts?"

"You sound surprised. Have I ever come across as something else? Also, one five six is the number of weeks we’ve known each other, gummy bear. It's our anniversary." Wade's mask crinkles, suggesting that he just winked. He pulls himself up on the bed to lay by the man’s side, head on the pillow, arms wandering under his neck, and one foot swinging left to right as if he was a kid visiting his beloved grandpa, not a highly dangerous gun for hire crashing at a superhero’s apartment uninvited and seriously wounded. "A thousand and ninety five just wouldn’t go in one bouquet, and Mister Do You Even Have This Kind Of Money ‘Cause You Look Like You Were Taken Out of A Dumpster wasn’t big on lending me a truck. I beg _his_ friggin’ pardon," he shoots one finger up in the air, "I was thrown into that dumpster for a _reason_ . A fair one, this time. No more throwing me into dumpsters for no reason two-k-nineteen, _s'il vous plaît et merci_."

"And that reason being?"

Peter grabs one of the wine-red roses and brings it up to his nose. Admittedly, it smells really nice and looks very expensive. His eyes fall to the velvety petals and cut out thorns, a smile tugging on his lips at the realisation that the flowers must have been bought at someplace that didn't smell like a corner stand.

If it warms up his heart a little, nobody has to know. And if it swells at the fact that Wade remembered such a date, one that even Peter doesn't remember, it's for him to keep.

"I may or may not have shot some X-Person in the arm," Wade explains offhandedly. "I thought they were a would-be rapist, I wanted to superhero for a second despite all of my senses reasonably explaining to me that we're too lazy for this shit, but a man has to have priorities, and you know it well that those deviant assholes are on top of them, but—believe it or not—a woman screaming like a wild horse in an alley of New York isn’t always a victim of sexual assault. Who would have thought? I blame Yellow, he told me to draw out a gun. I was voting for Arthur. The mutie wound up also voting for Arthur, but not really in the way I wanted. Hence the half a leg. Quarter a leg, really."

Peter opens his mouth to ask if it hurts, but then the ten-year-old experience with wounds knocks on the door of his consciousness and reminds him that yes, it hurts like a motherfucker. He hasn’t had any of his limbs cut off yet, so he can’t position that case on his ten-point scale of pain, but judging by all the enemies who have happened to have something severed, and the volume of their screams, he supposes that his scale isn’t enough for this.

Of course, Deadpool and his high pain threshold don’t stick to the laws of biology and physics, so not only is he seemingly unbothered by the now healing leg, but he’s also in a strangely good mood. And it says something, given that he is always in a good mood. Or at least it’s what he wants people to think.

"You seem uncharacteristically happy," Peter points out, tapping Wade’s forehead with the rose ever so slightly.

Since his brain has stopped approving the idea of hurting Wade in any way and under any reasonable condition, he ends up caressing the man with a flower. Of course. Put it on the laundry list of things he should work on but probably never will, right under self-confidence.

"What gave it away?" Wade tilts his head to the side to look up at him. "The flowers or the cut off leg? Or is it the new decor on your floor? Side-noted: nice crib. Smells like a broke Stark protégé who refuses to take a better wage and should spend more money on food instead of new toys. Not _those_ kind of toys, Yellow, you dirty shitstick, I'm talking about spider-gadgets." He pauses for three seconds. "Petey, White wants to know if you have a spider-themed d-"

Peter puts a hand on his masked mouth before the word gets out.

"You promised to never use this word where my ears can reach."

"I'd bleep myself. For your eyes only."

The original question still hangs in the air, though. Peter doesn’t know how to explain that it’s the odd way his body radiates excitement and giddiness in a way he’s never come to witness before. And he’s come to witness Wade Wilson in many situations—including putting his severed arms back to his body, or holding his katanas in the women’s room while he was taking a piss.

"Spidey-sense," he replies finally, having realized that he’s staring. "I can feel when someone's emotions change. It's like a mood ring but better."

Wade gasps. "Really?"

"No." Peter starts fiddling with another flower. "I just... I don’t know. You seem ready to pull a unicorn out of your pouch and fly away, leaving behind nothing but glitter and candies."

"Almost a perfect scenario, sugar, but it’s missing one very important thing. I can’t believe you think I’d ditch you like that. If I had a unicorn, you’d be the first one to ride it with me."

Peter rolls his eyes. "I can’t believe you think I’d ride a unicorn with you."

"Ever heard the term ‘kidnapping’?"

"Ever heard the term ‘consent’?" Peter bickers back, sticking the flower behind Wade’s belt.

"It’s right next to the s word in my dictionary, but far, far away from unicorn adventures."

The words throw Peter off for a second. Not because he expected anything  else of Wade, but because he didn’t think he’d be so bold about his views. But then again, by now Peter is familiar with Wade’s list of people to torture and cut through their hearts, which he would do if he was still pursuing the un-aliving method, and sexual assaulters were right at the top.

He’s convinced that if the Avengers have ever heard about this list, they’d certainly think better of Wilson. A grain better, but still. Maybe they would stop arguing with Peter about kicking Wade out every time he tags along with him to the movie nights in the Avengers Tower.

On the other hand, Peter can't blame them. The Chatterbox Duo, as Clint tends to call them affectionately, has the tendency to sing along to every single song in any movie. If they don't know the lyrics, you can be sure they'll either make it up, or switch words from _Thriller_ to _Lady Marmalade_. If Peter's being honest with himself, he's more than glad that they haven't been thrown out the window at this point.

"What gives, anyway?" He draws himself back across the bed and rests his back on the wall, for the hundredth time ignoring the urge to actually caress Wade’s head.

_Thanks for your input, heart, but kindly shut up._

"Love, Baby Boy, what else is there?" Wade flings his hand to his chest and lets out a sigh. "I have a mission. Seven days, two people, one purpose, and three years of doing it absolutely wrong according to the social rules of pursuing romance. Bee-tee-dubs, I say it’s bullshit, romance is subjective, but it appears it’s just me thinking that Taco Tuesdays and cutting through aliens’ guts together are enough to get yourself a lifelong bedmate."

Peter lifts an eyebrow, looking at the man’s mask as if a better explanation was written all over the leather, because as bright as he is, or as bright as people seem to think he is, it takes a bit to digest Wade Wilson’s words. Partly due to the speed of his speech, and partly due to how he skips from one topic to another ten times in a minute.

It’s not like he doesn’t like Wade. After three years of banter, team-ups, Mexican food shared on the Brooklyn Bridge, and actively annoying the hell out of the other heroes with their blabbermouth and non-stop jokes—which they kindheartedly describe as Good Mood Provision, even if Tony prefers to call them loquacious windbags—they’ve grown into the label of friends more naturally than either of them expected. Deadpool has taken a bullet for him more times than Peter thought it was necessary, given that he could have dodged ninety percent of them at least, but between learning that he can always trust Wade to have his back and the way the mercenary aimed his gun at non-vital body parts first more and more often, Peter started feeling like they could be something more than two masked bat-crazy superhumans on a battlefield.

It’s not that he doesn’t like-like Wade, too. It took Peter a while to come to terms with his evolving interest towards him. It required a year of heavy denial that he even was attracted to Wade Wilson romantically, and a few months of listing out reasons why it’s a stupid idea to have a crush on an immortal, chaotic loudmouth with two boxes of schizophrenia symptoms and a wheelbarrow of names erased from this world by dint of his past actions, and only then he felt like it was time to give up and accept his feelings.

Peter might have began his enchanting ages ago if it wasn’t for Wade’s habit of flirting with everything that moves or doesn’t move, counting in that time he had a one-sided dalliance with a brick thrown at him. Because of how Wade expresses his emotions towards everyone he ever encounters, Peter has always brushed off the thought that maybe, just maybe, he has been serious with his advances and attempts to call their Taco Tuesdays ‘dates’.

Hence why he’s now openly staring at Wade with what he would probably call his dumb deer face 2.0.

Deadpool seems to have no such problem as an inner dilemma about whether his current idea of wooing Peter is real or not. Unless he can have a dilemma during his sleep, that is.

 -

Miss Harris is overjoyed to wind up with seven vases of roses to decorate her living room, and Peter can't help but replay the memory of a cozy breakfast with Wade, while confusion and sadness seep through his bones.

 

**DAY TWO**

 

In Peter's line of work, the term ‘crazy’ in his inner dictionary has lost meaning over the course of ten years. He’s seen people resurrected, he’s been to Weirdworld, he’s fought with a man who could produce gold balls of different sizes from any part of his body, he’s been body-swapped, he’s been on the receiving end of magic, and he’s lived through his aunt’s unwavering love of meatballs.

He should have listened when Aunt May would say once in a while, "never say never."

"Son, do you happen to know Peter Parker?" The man behind the wheel of a sizeable blue truck nods, his cap falling lower on his forehead. He fixes it and leans over the open window. "I got a thing for him." He points his thumb at the back of the vehicle.

"A truck?" Peter asks, confounded.

"What? No. What’s inside it."

Peter takes another few seconds to eye the truck. It looks ridiculous, sticking out like a sore thumb among average cars and bikes lined up along the sidewalk.

"I didn’t call for any truck or its containment. You’ve got the wrong person."

"Oh, so it’s you! Thank heavens." The driver sends him a grateful smile and reaches for a card to read out from it. "Peter Parker, Long Island City, Queens Boulevard, 43-25 43rd Street, apartment twenty eight. Is that right?"

Peter frowns, digging the hands in his pockets even deeper, drawing his shoulders up. "Uh, yeah, but what does it-"

"I hope you got a big room ‘cause, dammit, does your lover have a big heart and wallet," the man chuckles, throwing the card onto the passenger seat. "You got someone to help you out with it?"

"With what?" Peter is having trouble finding his words. "What—What do you mean a lover? I don’t have—I don't have a lover."

"He sounded like one for sure." The driver looks at him in equal parts curiosity and concern. "He was very convincing with the way he made the order."

"Was he? What's in the truck?" Peter changes the topic.

If Torch is pulling another apartment-destroying prank he swears he'll develop a web that survives any kind of fire the man can produce and web his balls to his eyes.

"Hazelnut chocolate. A couple of thousands, that is."

"I'm allergic to hazelnuts," Peter blurts out. He's so going to collapse at any second.

"He might have foreseen that."

Right on cue, an identical truck drives up and pulls out behind the first one.

Peter shouldn't be surprised to see Wade behind the wheel. He really shouldn't. Somehow he still is. Glued to the edge of the pavement, eyes widened and jaw close to dropping between his feet, he can’t do anything but stare on the verge of despair.

"Ten thousands Kinder Eggs, _por favor_ ," Wade cheers in lieu of a greeting, jumping out of the vehicle. "I still don't get why they're illegal but it turns out that if you pay enough money, everything is legal. Politics are fun."

Peter's gotten used to the man in jeans and hoodies, given the couple of occasions they've gone out for dinner as civilians, and he's seen Deadpool pull off a lolita dress stretched over his suit.

What he _hasn't_ gotten used to, and what he probably would have never been able to get himself ready to witness, is Wade Wilson in an expensive-looking black suit, a white and pink polka dots shirt, and a black cap that would look out of place if it was worn by anyone but a model in a GQ magazine, but in this case it works perfectly. 

He'd lie bluntly if he said his heart didn't pick up its speed as he shivers in his winter coat. It's _freezing_.

He must have been gaping because next thing he knows is that his jaw is being put back on its rightful place with a scarred finger.

"Sweetest things for my sweetest thing only," Wade coos, ruffling his hair and sending him a grin. "I knew I remembered some connection between you and nuts, beside the obvious one, but since I've gone through more head concussions than you have hair, there was a lacuna where the word 'allergic’ should have stood. Hence the Kinder Eggs. There are two things everyone loves—Kinder Eggs and Michael Jackson, but the latter's been sniffing flowers from the downside for a while now, so my options narrowed down to one."

Peter supposes he has to say something instead of just staring.

Say something nice.

"What the fuck, Wade?"

Maybe not that nice.

Wade's face falls instantly. The motion is so quick that you wouldn’t have noticed if you didn't know there is more to him than just the red leather suit and two katanas, nor would you have noticed the hurried mask he paints to hide his sadness.

"What? You don't like Kinder Eggs?" He asks, tilting his head in a way Peter knows is borderline self-conscious. A sting goes through Peter's heart at the sight of the man being on the verge of hiding under the persona of quirky merc without deeper feelings. "Because if so, I'm gonna rethink the core of our friendship, Parker."

Peter grimaces. "The problem isn’t the eggs, it’s the fact that you thought that buying me two trucks of candy is a good idea."

"Since when buying candy _isn't_ a good idea?" Wade frowns, crossing his arms over his chest in something that an average pedestrian would describe as confidence, but Peter knows better than this. "You candyphobic or something?"

"Since it's two trucks of it and only one me to deal with it, Wade," he explains, looking around to see if anybody’s staring. True to New York fashion, no one gives a damn. "If you wanted to make fun of me, you should've pulled a prank like Johnny does. Just don't switch my toothpaste to Frosch and don't smear Nutella over the crotch of my suit."

Wade wiggles his eyebrows. "I'd like those nuts in chocolate, Ferrero Rocher style."

"Wade!"

"I would never make fun of you! Have I ever made fun of you? Have I ever made fun of him?" Wade turns to the driver behind his back.

The man makes a face and shrugs, then goes back to whatever he's been doing on his phone, unruffled.

"Two weeks ago after Shocker knocked me out you wrote ‘count to three and tap that ass’ on the back of my suit."

"I didn't do that," Wade huffs, dragging his gaze to the side.

"And under that you wrote ‘if found please return to Deadpool. You too, Tin Man, especially you’."

Wade opens his mouth, closes it, then draws up one finger and looks back at Peter. " _That_ I might have done."

"You still owe me for the cleaning."

In response, Wade makes jazz hands towards the trucks. "Payback!"

"Is that what it is?" Peter grunts, crossing his arms like Wade, but with more anger in it. He's being embarrassed in the middle of the pavement, on _his_ street, first thing in the morning. He has the right to be mad. "A _payback_? What have I done wrong to you? Was the sauce on your tacos too mild? Did I get the recipe wrong?"

"Your sauce has no right to be mild 'cause I taught you how to cook it myself, and when I do something, I always do it from a through cut and kill to z."

"No, you don't."

"No, I don't, jeez, don't at me, you know I try." Wade rolls his eyes. "At least I get to the cut point, that's the most important point in the alphabet. Right after Ariana Grande."

"What? The alphabet doesn't—" Peter shakes his head. "That's not the issue."

"Can I go?" A voice from behind Wade calls.

"Yes," he replies at the same time as Wade says, "no."

"No?" Peter demands.

"It _is_ for you." Wade jabs his shoulder. "It's not a joke. And not a prank. It's a daring gift more like. I'm still trying to woo here, work with me."

They exchange looks, Peter's saddened, and Wade's confused and maybe a little hopeful.

"Donate it to orphanages. I'm going to work, I'm already late."

 -

When Peter comes back home it's to two Kinder Eggs and a pendrive filled with pictures of Deadpool with kids and homeless people munching all the chocolate bars Peter refused to take.

 

**DAY THREE**

 

If Peter said mornings come far too early, that would imply that his life is actually organized by days divided into time-based parts.

As someone who dresses up in spandex to save the day basically round-the-clock with no holidays to speak of in the past ten years, Peter realizes that the lines between days and nights are completely blurred. One might think his biology would have gotten used to the random hours of work, hang outs in space, and a wacky schedule, but while his brain says yes, his body says no. But it's not like his body has much choice when another copy of Hobgoblin decides to make a ruckus in Times Square, is it?

The point is, the morning doesn't come far too early—it's Peter who sleeps far too little. He's the first to admit it, no shame and no doubts, only regrets when once in a while he trades sleep for Donald Duck comics.

The clock over the reception of Stark Industries reads eight fifty five, but it could be three in the afternoon and he'd still need the same amount of coffee.

He makes it to the twelfth floor, sending thankful prayers to the ceiling that Tony Stark would rather shove a knife down his throat than play typical elevator music in his tower, and another one for Tony Stark’s love for such classics as Queen, Backstreet Boys, and ABBA.

There used to be a time when he hoped for a normal greeting from his lab partner, but that hope died hard about two weeks into their partnership. Today is no different.

"You look like somebody skull-stomped you at night and then electrocuted you at least three times as a bonus."

"I like your new hair, too, Julie, thank you." He sends a tired smile to the woman sitting by their shared workstation. "Highlights?"

The roll of her eyes betrays her attempt to act like he failed at his guess. "You're too cute, no wonder you have no interest in women. Ryan asked why I paid my hairstylist for nothing, that moron. And then made bruschetta, so I couldn't even hit him with a pan."

Peter drops his backpack on one of the chairs by the kitchenette and goes for the coffee machine.

"How thoughtful of you. And I never said I have no interest in women," he corrects Julie. "I said I’m only interested in one man."

"Which, as it seems, is an unrequited interest," she points out from behind his back.

The soft buzzing sounds coming from holoscreens echo in the lab, only hearable for Peter himself, and it's enough for him to feel a little bit at ease. That's something he knows, that's something he loves, he's good.

" _Possibly_ unrequited. It's a matter of confusion."

"It's a matter of you being too much of a chicken to approach him about the issue."

"Can we not talk about my love life now?" A couple of muscles in Peter’s jaw twitch. "I'm too hungry for this topic."

"You don't have a love life, Parker, you've got a friend-zone life, and it's your own fault. Whatever. If you're making coffee, I'd like one, too."

He quirks an eyebrow. "Haven't you had one yet?"

"Are you, Peter ‘I need seventeen coffees a day to survive’ Parker, trying to lecture me about caffeine?"

Peter rolls his eyes in response, knowing that she can’t see it anyway, and picks up two cups from the steel counter.

"Oh, and by the way, there's some box waiting for you, I put it in the corner," Julie says in an ostensibly indifferent manner. "Someone—your most recent seducer, cough cough— was either successful enough to break into the tower or wordsmith enough to talk JARVIS out of calling the cops, 'cause it was already there when I came into the lab."

Peter stops in his tracks, a finger hovering over the latte macchiato button. Caffeine. He needs caffeine to survive that.

"Coffee first. Responsibilities and gifts from Deadpool later. Just please tell me it's not a truck full of cows, I don't know how to milk cows."

Julie sighs. "Does your two hundred fifty IQ comprehend the fact that a truck wouldn't fit in this lab?"

"My IQ is still asleep."

"It shows."

Despite his inner urge to learn what the gift is, he finishes making the two coffees, walks up to Julie to hand her one cup, and approaches the full-length window. He breathes in the familiar smell of metal, coffee, biscuits, and secured chemicals. The lab feels more like home than his actual own apartment in Forest Hills, and it's been only in the past couple of months that he started noticing how weird it is.

When he was still living with May, home was wherever she was, in their small house on Ingram Street, and that felt enough. Nowadays, no matter how cluttered or dinner-smelling his apartment is, it still feels like something’s missing. And it's not his Aunt. The feeling remained even when she slept at his place a handful of times.

No matter the reason, he's got a home-alike for now. He won't be a whiny brat.

It’s when he brings the cup up to his lips and takes the final sip that he finally looks at the at least three feet high box and decides that he might as well open it now.

"Please, don't be a bomb," he mutters, walking back to the kitchenette to put his cup into the dishwasher.

A minute later he is sitting on the floor in the corner of the lab cutting the square open as Julie observers him not-so-sneakily. She seems to be amused by watching Peter get more and more confused with each day.

"He still bent on gifting you, I see."

"Apparently so." Peter pulls out a smaller box out of the box and frowns. "I don't get what his deal is. If he wants to make fun of me, then he should've just written that 'tap my ass’ thing on my… on my back." He pulls a stuffed animal out of the second box.  "It's a bear. What the… Oh, my God."

Peter drops the teddy bear back to the box and groans, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

Julie approaches him with a chuckle. "What?"

"Why is he like this?"

In all honesty, he's torn between bursting out with laughter and calling a therapist. Given that he can't afford a therapist, and today's mood keeps his mouth in a horseshoe position, he settles for staring at his co-worker as she pulls out the toy again.

"‘Shit, bitch, you is fine’," Julie reads out the words from the heart sewn between the bear's paws. She laughs. "This is fucking cute."

"It's not cute, Julie, it's crude."

She walks up to the kitchenette and  places the bear on top of the cupboard. She turns to Peter with arms crossed against her chest.

"Is there any way to woo you, Gregory House?"

"You implying I prefer prostitutes over an actual relationship?"

She hasn't looked more done with him ever since he said he doesn’t like Star Trek.

"I'm implying you avoid relationship like fire and you're hard to make advances to 'cause you seem to be a romantic retard."

"Deadpool—Wade isn't making advances," Peter argues, but the words come out weak even for his ears. "He does this to everyone. He even flirts with walls, I've seen it firsthand."

Peter's met with silence and a quirked eyebrow in response.

He definitely needs more coffee.

 -

8:17 AM  
what the hell, Wade???

8:19 AM  
in my defense i was honest

 

8:19 AM  
you're ridiculous.

 

8:20 AM  
what's your deal? i was polite when asking you to not make a fool of me.

 

8:37 AM  
Wade?

 

10:13 AM  
Wade, please, talk to me.

 

5:33 PM  
on a job

 

**DAY FOUR**

 

Peter likes to think he's a patient person.

Considering all the things he's lived through—all the battles he's come out from in shreds, all the on-and-off-again months with MJ that culminated in a sad but final break up, all the people he's lost, all the days he's spent on tinkering with his Spidey tech—his life has, undoubtedly, required a lot of patience, whether he wants to or not.

Tony once said that angels themselves would pay Peter to tell them his ways around bullshit, but, to be fair, that was after he'd spent twenty minutes stuck in an elevator with Wade.

His patience has annoyed Julie to no end—Peter is sure she'd be throwing the holoscreens if they were throwable just because she has to rewrite an equation. He once spent over an hour on watching a cake grow in the oven. Come to think of it, he's relieved his seven-year-old self didn't make a hobby of observing cheesecakes in ovens.

With all that said, it's easy to conclude that Peter Parker can put up with a lot, Wade Winston Wilson included. In all fairness, it has more to do with the similarity of characters and genuine bond between two outcasts with too much to say.

Anyways.

He was sure that beside the ever dying-and-somehow-coming-back-to-life Norman Osborn, nothing could step over the threshold of his patience.

He stands corrected.

"You have twenty seconds," he says coldly, folding his arms against his chest. "Explain."

If he wasn't so frustrated, he would laugh. Admittedly, the scene in front of him is nothing short of hilarious.

His bedroom looks exactly like he left it in the morning—two sweaters scattered on the floor, a pair of jeans cast over the back of his chair, a clean desk, various posters and photos stuck on baby blue walls, a full bed he bought with the bonus Stark Industries gave him for the little breakthrough in the nanotech department.

Everything would be fine if it wasn’t for that one thing he’s a hundred percent certain he did not leave in his room.

He might have had a couple of head concussions, but he swears he didn’t leave a man in a Stitch costume looking like he’s been sitting on the edge of the bed for a few hours, back straight and hands joined on his lap.

The person under the big head of Stitch takes in a lungful.

"First things first, I did not rob Disneyland, I promise," says the male voice hurriedly. "At least not in the past two years."

"Seventeen seconds."

Another lungful. Breathe out. "I was paid to do that, man, do you think I’m fond of dressing up in Disney chic? I did not break in, he did, he gave me ten thousands bucks, put a gun to my head, told me to learn a song, a dance, and cook you a dinner, and if you like it, he’ll pay me double to stay two more days. I have kids to feed, dude."

Peter’s brows furrow. "A gun to your— _Wade_."

He whines exasperatedly and slides a hand down his face. He was an idiot for hoping that this charade was put an end on after yesterday’s cold text and Wade’s absence at their daily patrol.

"Deadpool, yeah?" He asks the man and gets a shaky nod in response. "Take this thing off, it’s ridiculous and you’re probably sweating. You need a glass of water?"

The mask comes off and reveals an average man that Peter would probably take for a pizza delivery guy.

"I take it you don’t want me to sing?" He makes sure, frowning in half fear, half hope.

Peter approaches his desk and grabs the half empty bottle standing on the edge to hand it to the man.

"Of course not, Christ, and I promise you’re safe. If anything, I’ll tell him you did great. Go buy your kids some Chips Ahoy. You’re good."

The man downs almost all the water with no shame to speak of, but as someone who spends a shit ton of time in a mask, Peter’s not one to judge.

As he sits down by the still suited man, he realizes that his life indeed could have gotten weirder, and it just did.

"I can't believe I learned the words and dance to  _He Mele No Lilo_ for nothing, man. I can teach you."

Peter stares for a few seconds. "Do you ever hit that point in your life when a man in a Stitch suit offering to teach you _He Mele No Lilo_  might as well just happen?"

 -

If he watches _Lilo & Stitch _ for the hundredth time in his life later that evening, a bouquet made of tiny Stitches he found in the kitchen hugged to his chest, it stays between him and his tear-stained napkins.

 

**DAY FIVE**

 

There was this one time when Peter woke up tied to a chair upside down over a fire. Then there was this time he woke up behind bars in Mysterio's underground lair. And then there was this _other_ time he woke up to aliens hovering over him on a planet he, for the life of him, will never recall the name of. He's woken up to various types of tortures, weird faces, and odd situations.

He was once even magically transported by a coven of teenage witches just to learn that magic says his heartmate is no one else but Deadpool. As if that made the matter better for his heart.

However, in the twenty five years of his life, he has never woken up to an almost naked woman he definitely did not remember inviting over.

On a side note, the squeak he let out was totally manly. Like, ten out of ten on a scale of manliness.

He rubs his eyes, trying to make them focus on the dark-haired woman in blue and white lingerie as she lounges on his bed. She's young and undoubtedly pretty, even too pretty for what he supposed is a sex worker, and Peter's saved enough of these in his Spider-Man career to have a general idea of their usual looks.

"Peter, is that right?" She asks, lips curling up in a sweet smile.

"Let me stop you there," Peter cuts in, voice still hoarse from sleep, not even lifting his head up from the pillow. "There's like ninety nine point nine percent of a chance that you were paid to be here for a certain amount of time by nobody else by Wade Wilson aka Deadpool aka a gun for hire in a red and black suit. Before you start anything, know that I do not give you my consent, and you're a part of some plan of Wade's, and I have no fucking idea what's going on. So now I'm gonna get up from bed, you're gonna follow, I'll give you clothes, and we'll eat breakfast and have coffee because I can't take this shit without at least forty milligrams of caffeine."

Something akin to shock crosses the woman's face, then it segues to confusion, and then, somehow, her expression softens and she doesn't even look like an escort or whatever her profession is - she's now just a barely twenty year old girl with a pretty face and kindness in her eyes.

Peter's heart stings at that quick change of attitude, wondering for a second what must have happened to put her in such position, but then he recovers, knowing better than to judge.

Nevertheless, he ends up lending her a sweater and a pair of sweats. She seems to not mind the men’s clothing, rolling up the pants a bit, drawing the sleeves of the sweater halfway up her forearms, and putting her hair up with a pencil she found.

Once in the small kitchen, they only exchange words when he asks if she likes cereal and if she wants milk in her coffee. Mostly out of habit, Peter takes the place on the countertop, and the woman by the table.

His thoughts trail towards Wade—what even gave the man the idea of putting a sex worker in his bed? Escort? Whatever.

That's the oddest and most screwed up idea he's ever had, and he did once buy four reindeers hoping to train them to pull him and Peter on a sleigh. Even if the reindeers ended up being more fond of sleep than work, last year's Hanukkah was definitely one of the best Peter's ever had, with Mario Kart, sufganiots made by them both in Wade's kitchen, and a night of cuddling they've never brought up or just blatantly ignored.

"So, that Wade of yours," the woman speaks up, fiddling with her spoon and casting Peter a look.

"There's no 'of yours'," he corrects, biting on his lower lip. "He's just a friend. Before you ask anything else, can I just know how much he paid you?"

"Fifty grand," she replies easily. "For half a day."

"Fifty grand." He sighs into his bowl and swallows another spoonful. "What's your name?"

"Charlotte."

"Peter." He sends her a smile.

She reciprocates and gets busy again with her breakfast.

"Can I ask you something else?" She gives him a self-conscious glance. Peter nods. "Are you the Peter Parker? The one taking pictures of Spider-Man?"

"One and only," he admits sheepishly.

"Saw some pictures in your room. You have some contact with him? What's he like?"

Charlotte seems to be doing her best to contain herself and not let the fangirl out, but she's doing a terrible job. Peter waves a hand.

"He's cool." He shrugs. "Really solid guy. Why, do you want an autograph?"

"My kids are fans. So am I, honestly. Who isn't? He's great." A splash of crimson crawls on her cheeks.

"I could list a few individuals," Peter says honestly, and then something else catches his attention. "You have kids?"

The woman nods, gluing her gaze to the bowl. "Two. They're amazing. They definitely  deserve better than an escort of a mother."

"Hey, nothing like this." Peter jumps down from the counter, places his empty dishes in the sink under the window, and approaches her. "Having sex for money is nothing you should be ashamed of, Charlotte. Can I call you Charlotte? Sex is just sex. Nature doesn't really give a shit why we do it or who with as long as we do it. If it helps you get money, and you actually like it, then do it. It's just another job, as long as you give consent. Sex workers deserve to have a safe job with benefits. They're- _You're_ human beings offering a service that many people value. It's just a job. Don't feel bad about it. Do you enjoy being an escort?"

The words seem to have thrown the women off as she's now bluntly staring at Peter in disbelief. It's easy to note that she hasn't really heard such words many times.

She takes a few seconds to reply.

"I'm rather fond of my job. I'd lie if I said I don't like sex. I like giving people new or comfortable experiences. I like how I can be places and be paid for it. I like it. I just don't think my kids will be fond of this when they'll be old enough to understand."

Peter places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. "See? It's all fine. I'm sure your kids will understand. Kids today are more accepting, after all. Or so I hear."

She gives him another smile. As she goes back to the breakfast, Peter approaches the sink again to wash the contains.

Another dose of silence fills the kitchen, broken only by sips and gulps, and the echoes of conversations from the apartments around them and the streets that only Peter can hear and that he's learnt to ignore entirely. Enhanced senses are a bitch.

He glances at the electronic clock on the windowsill—seven forty. He should be getting ready.

He looks over his shoulder at the woman and gets another idea.

"What are you going to do with this money?" He asks, drying his hands into the towel. "Have you ever been paid this much?"

"Once, I think." She nods. "I'll find some time and buy the twins some new stuff. Clothes, toys, sweets. Maybe something extra."

"Tell you what," he says, leaning on the counter. "I'll call in sick, and we'll go out for shopping together."

"Why would you go shopping with me?" She cocks an eyebrow.

"You're stuck with me, I guess, I remember you said something about half a day." He flashes a small grin. "Kidding. I just feel like you'd use a hand with the bags. Feel free to say no, you're absolutely allowed to walk out from here at any moment, I won't tell Wade you left sooner."

Charlotte studies him for a couple of seconds, then only smiles, nods again, and stands up with the empty dishes in her hands.

"Lunch will be my treat, though. And, hey." She puts the cup and bowl into the sink, and turns back to Peter. "You know, I'm no love expert, but that Wade of yours... He's confusing."

Peter sighs. "That's one way to describe him, yeah."

 -

It's around seven in the evening when Peter finally finds the time to swing by Charlotte's where he spends three hours on playing Scrabble with Elin and Anne.

 

**DAY SIX**

 

There's nothing when his eyelids flicker up.

He's spent good five minutes on refusing to open his eyes in possibility of being met with another dumb thing Wade got for him.

But there's nothing.

He rises from his bed slowly, expecting something to drop from the ceiling or fall in through the window. Still nothing.

Same room. Same books. Same pictures and posters. Same wacky window frame.

Then there's breakfast and—still—nothing.

He falls into his Saturday routine of tidying up the apartment, tinkering with his web-shooters, drawing possible new designs of his suit, reading a book, and dorky dancing to Britney Spears. All of this uninterrupted.

He sews up the small scratch on the thigh of his costume. He makes pancakes. He offers to walk Miss Harris' dog. He puts together three web grenades and locks them onto the tiny clips on the hip of the suit.

Nothing. At. _All_.

It's nerve-wracking, to say the least.

At five in the evening he puts on his Spidey gear and approaches the window, but doesn't open it. He doesn't feel like it.

He tugs off the gloves, tucks them into the backpack, puts on some clothes, flings the backpack on his shoulder, and heads out to the convenient store.

Cereal, milk. Then the vegetables area, it's Taco Tuesday after all.

He smiles at the thought itself.

Ever since Deadpool first invited him over and taught how to make the 'real deal tacos', they have subconsciously created a tradition of taking turns in making tacos on weekends or sometimes even during the working days. Peter's cooking isn't great, but he's definitely mastered making them almost as good as the mercenary.

Shower gel, uh, what else? Baby powder, yes, that's a necessity.

As he walks towards the checkouts, he eyes the things in his cart and makes sure he hasn't forgotten anything. He's not a fan of coming back to the store three minutes after shopping.

The young man on the register mutters the total.

Peter stands the two bags by his feet, fishes out a wallet from the backpack, undoes the clasp, and stares.

Three minutes later, with two bags in one hand and a piece of paper in the other, he swears to never come back to the store after the kind of cackle he's sure that half the building heard.

_Hey, Pete._

_See, intentionally, this was supposed to be seven days to woo you, but Doc Screw Science I Am Now A Magician claims that resurrecting Michael Jackson is the most fucked up idea I've had since asking him to magic me up a Pegasus. He said something about having common sense, general structures of moral codes, and me being a mental asshole._

_Spoilsport._

_Anyway. It's not what I want to tell you._

_Also, I promised myself to not scratch anything, even if it's stupid and makes no sense - that's to avoid scratching what I ACTUALLY want to tell you._

_If you're standing, better sit down. If you're sitting, you can stand up._

Peter drops the bags on his kitchen counter. He starts unpacking.

_You're probably thinking, 'why does a round pizza come in a square box' and 'why is it acceptable to fuck a fish but homophobia is still a thing' and 'why did I wake up to an escort yesterday?'. I can answer that last one. I told Bob to rent a car from the Escort Limousine Service. I should have remembered I'd smashed a controller on his left ear a week ago. SIGH._

_But more importantly, you're probably wondering what the thingy is for. It'll do you a solid and explain - that's to buy your love. Just kidding. Figuratively. Money can't buy love. Only rent it for fourteen minutes max if your dick looks like it's been deep fried._

_Anyhoo._

He wraps the hot tacos in tin foil and stashes them into his backpack right next to the bottle of coke. A quick walk to his bedroom and he returns with a blanket.

_I have a few things to say. Only a few, yes, don't @ me._

_Right off the bat, I want you to know that your copy of Thriller is on my shelf, safe and sound, maybe a little overused. Remind me why you don't have Spotify? SIGH. Back on track._

He loses the clothes, casts them over his chair, and slides into a plain hoodie. Goddamn winter.

_I'm not a perfect person. Duh. I'm deep under the antonym of perfection._

_You know me a lot. You're the first one to actually know this much about me and it's both nice and scary like cows._

He adjusts the mask, tightens the straps of the backpack, and springs out of the window.

_My instincts were built with a fight in mind. I can only sleep when you're with me, and when it's quiet, because I need to hear everything, I have had enough of shooting myself and being shot while I was asleep. I love storms and blizzards, but I always worry if you don't catch a cold when they're around, I snore if I've had a very bad day, I'm clingy as fuck, I'm an absolute piece of foolish shit, I find comfort in violence and Mario Kart, I have never seen Titanic, and I still don't understand why Obama hasn't replied to my petition of bringing Zayn back to One Direction._

_All of this, that's me. I don't think I even fit onto the list of synonyms of a trash can._

Clinton Hill. A group of muggers. The backpack is left on a roof for three minutes.

_If I have any good traits, it's my respect for you, and in the mess of the worst traits this world has seen, there's one thing you may have not guessed which I don't blame you for._

Whitman Park. A cat on a tree. He's given a peck on the cheek in return for saving it.

_I love you. I have for what feels like forever. That's me being cliche here, don't get too attached._

_Why did I promise to not scratch anything? Who the fuck thought it was a good idea? Me. Idiot._

Dock Street. An almost car crash. Three lives saved.

_I know it's not the best confession you've ever gotten._

_I don't stand in front of you, smoking hot in one of those McFucking flowery Gucci suits, with baby smooth skin and thick locks. I don't even STAND in front of you. That may be because, contrary to popular belief, I'm a huge fucking coward._

Brooklyn Bridge.

_But I'm in love with you. I, Deadpool, coward², am in love with you, Peter Parker, and promise to do right by you as much as I'm capable of._

_Don't feel obligated to do anything. And please don't burn this paper in your apartment - you're clumsy and I used your fire distinguisher to make snowmen on the roof of Stark Tower._

_Yeah. That'd be it._

_You know where to find me._

"Before you say something, in my defense my intentions were good. I'm sorry for the inconveniences."

Peter stands there, panting a little, and watches as the sun lays its last rays on Wade, painting orange stripes over his back. He doesn't dare to approach for now, respecting the man's choice to not face him yet and the distance he's set.

"If you're here, you probably know everything by now. And I can't even—You know what, I'm man enough, fuck it."

Wade pulls himself to his legs, dangerously close to the edge, and turns around to look at Peter through the white lenses.

"I want you to know I'm sorry." It sounds like a start. Peter recognises the tone—it's the one he rarely gets to hear, too grave and honest to make an appearance more than a couple of times a year. "I'm sorry for all the hurt, all the times I made you worry, and all the days you felt like cooking me over a fire like a marshmallow. I'm sorry for making you think I ever intended to make fun of you through my advances. For not saying it sooner.”

He casts a quick glance at Peter, probably expecting him to interrupt. As if he didn’t know Peter’s fondness and patience have been present every time Wade opened his mouth. He’s seen Wade hurt because of people cutting him off and telling him to shut up too often to do the same thing.

So Wade locks his eyes on his joined hands again and continues.

“I'm sorry I'm not the guy you're looking for, the one you'd introduce to your family and show around with pride. And I'm sorry this all sucks. It's me. Of course it sucks. If you want me to never speak to you, I'll understand. I'll never bother you if that's what you want. I just—God, this is so embarrassing.” He hooks his entwined fingers on his neck. “Most famous loudmouth, the fucking wordsmith, cannot—I’m—Fuck. I need you to hear it, like actually _hear_ it. I won't forgive myself if I don't tell you now." Inhale, exhale. "I'm in love with you."

A honk. Another one. Someone's shouting. Somehow, it's still quiet. 

Peter studies Wade's masked face, looking for any kind of emotion other than the naked honesty in his voice, but the mask remains impassive.

He takes an unsteady step, then checks on the man if it's fine, closes the few feet distance and brings his hands up to Wade's head.

"Can I?" He asks, scratching the fastening on the back of the mask. "I want to talk to Wade."

It takes Deadpool a few seconds to respond with a barely noticeable nod.

Peter undoes the Velcro slowly enough for the man to have a chance for a withdrawal, but it doesn't come. The leather lands by their feet, and a piece of red spandex follows.

He places his hands on the man's jaw, searching for his eyes, but Wade refuses to look up. He traces across a few lines of scars, as always marveling at the one-of-a-kind structure.

He swallows, then bites on the inside of his cheek.

"I'm proud of you, Wade," he confesses in a half whisper.

That does it. Wade locks his surprised gaze with Peter's.

"What?"

"I'm proud of you," Peter repeats louder, caressing the uneven web of gashed skin on the man's cheekbones. "Okay? Of all you've achieved. I'm proud of your strong will and the kept promise to try to be better. Of every little thing you've done to reach the goal of being something more than just another lost cause. I'm proud of the fact that you've come enough of a long way to admit something you've never admitted before because you were too scared, and of you for being brave enough to give into this feeling. I am proud of you, okay?"

Wade raises his eyebrows and blinks, showing no sign of comprehension.

Peter’s never seen him this speechless. Last time he didn't say a word for ten minutes straight was when his favorite taco stand in Manhattan closed.

The familiar eyes seek for a hint of a joke he's a part of, but don't find any. Then they disappear behind eyelids dark from exhaustion. And then from under those eyelids slides out a tear, and another one, and another.

It's only then that Peter realizes nobody's ever said those words to Wade, and his heart breaks a little at the thought that Wade has been treated so badly in his life that he cannot believe in anything good someone has to say about him. That he thinks any word of praise is nothing but a cruel joke.

For a split second Peter regrets never telling him words of appreciation other than "good job," but he knows that even those two simple words are more than he'd ever heard before he met Peter.

His jaws clench involuntarily, eyes start to sting. He stands on his tiptoes to kiss the tear drops away, and gives the man another hearten smile.

"I'm so, _so_ proud of you, Wade. So proud."

It's not the first time Wade initializes a hug, but it's sure as hell the first time the hug is so tight and soul-crashing. Peter lets it happen, reciprocating just as hard, cuddling further to make it clear that it’s all for real, that it’s not a hallucination or a dream. That Peter is here and will always be if he’ll have him.

He's not sure how long it lasts, but the sun is close to being completely down when they part, Wade's hands stilled on his hips, and his ones reaching up to wipe another portion of tears.

"And that," he says, reaching into his pants to pull out one of the two things he found in his wallet, "is definitely enough to buy me."

He waves it in front of Wade's eyes.

It's genuinely the most ridiculous thing he's ever gotten - a napkin with a cheery stickman in a circle drawn in the center of it, the digit one drawn in two opposite corners, and, in all caps, 'ONE MONEY’ written over and under the stickman.

'That's to buy your love' reads the reverse.

He lets out a chuckle, the leftover from the laugh attack he went through on his way home from the store.

"That's worth a lot, you know," Wade informs, snatching the napkin and repeating Peter's action, the sadness flickering gone from his eyes. "It took me a fuckton of time to make it."

"Oh, really?" Peter folds his arms across his chest and smirks.

"Like twenty seconds." Wade nods, crumpling the one money and throwing it over his shoulder.

"I assume I must feel honored."

Silence falls between them as Peter observes the way Wade's expression segues from happiness to pure fondness and something he radiates with, something he's been stifling for a long while, and something Peter's sure he's mirroring right now.

"Does this mean you're bought?" Wade's hands cautiously find their way back to Peter's hips. “Is that what it takes? One money?”

"You threw the money away, but yes, I'm bought." Peter's fingers are onto tracing the man's uneven skin on his temples. He takes a breath, a short and shallow one, finds some courage he usually gets a big dose of once his mask is on, and makes sure his eyes agree with his words. "I've got the same thing, you know?"

Wade's face drops in a millisecond.

"El cáncer?! You can’t die on me!” He squeezes Peter’s shoulders and shakes him slightly. “Don’t go where I can’t follow, for the love of Freddie Mercury."

"What? No!" Peter laughs. “And don’t you mean God?”

“Listen, you’ve got your higher power, I have mine. Think, think, think, Wade. You’ve got ADHD?"

"That one's debatable." He rests his forehead against Wade's, rising on the balls on his feet, and caresses the scarred skin to calm the man down. He takes another sharp breath. "I mean to say I worry about you catching a cold when there's a blizzard or storm outside, too." He suppresses a grin by biting on his lower lip. His heart skips a beat. "And most importantly, I’ve been in love with you, Wade Wilson. I _am_ in love with you. There goes the cliche." He chuckles. "I can’t imagine anyone else good enough to introduce to my family and to be proud of at any moment of any day or night. You’re perfect in the way you are. I love you not despite the sides of you that you consider your worst, but _because_ of them. Don’t ever doubt that, please. You’re all I need and more. You make me happy, Wade. I hope I can make you happy, too. You deserve some sweet happiness. So much of it, Wade, all of it."

He expects Wade to maybe cry again, or to smooch the hell out of him, or maybe even moonwalk in the true Deadpool fashion, but instead, Wade takes Peter's hand into his, tugs off the glove, and places a kiss at the center of his palm, right next to the trigger of his web-shooter.

Peter's heart is sure close to hammering out of his chest.

He watches as the man plants another kiss over the wrist, then on each of his fingers, and only then he closes the distance and his lips finally find Peter's.

A hand wanders down Peter's back in tandem to his one finding its way to Wade's neck, and only then he allows the moan to escape his lungs and opens his mouth wider to happily welcome a tentative tongue.

Call him crazy, but with Wade Wilson, most definitely the craziest person this world has seen, he feels absolutely safe and at ease.

He feels home.

 -

Wade laughs at Peter refusing to stop swaying his hips in circles to the rhythm of _He Mele No Lilo_ at the center of the column of the Brooklyn Bridge and mouth full of taco. If he joins, he promises it's only so Peter won't make an idiot of himself on his own.

After all, that's what heartmates are for.

 

[prompt source](http://web-s.tumblr.com/post/182168587151)

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah.  
> I never planned on writing this story, mostly because I have an ongoing, long fic for another fandom going that I really need to finish, but it somehow happened. I had a lot of fun with it, to be honest.  
> I want to thank Elin (t: awstark) for figuring out the general plot with me and for being a great brainstorm mate. I also want to thank Lizzy (t: katebishopofearth) who beta'd the fic. You're both amazing.  
> It's been a challenge to write the persona of Wade Wilson and I hope I do him justice in at least 60%, which translates to: I haven't read so many comics for nothing. XD  
> You can find me on tumblr: winston-wilson.  
> Love! x


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